


When Hell Freezes Over

by TheDevilOnioah



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Based off Oglaf's Snow Queen series, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, Inspired by Oglaf Comics, M/M, Peter Parker isn't Spider-Man, Wade Wilson is Deadpool, gets dicked down by definitely deadpool, liberal use of lube, nope fuck you, once we get past the foreplay, pillow princess peter, sorta not really spiderman, wade is still a mercenary, will I ever stop writing medieval times?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 06:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDevilOnioah/pseuds/TheDevilOnioah
Summary: It's been years since Peter has been talked to with anything other than cruelty and an intent to kill. How ironic that this mercenary looking for money reminds him what being loved feels like.





	When Hell Freezes Over

The music is too loud for his liking, that’s the first thing he complains about. 

“I’ll give you money to shut up,” He offers a flute player who’s making it his life mission to ensure every note is a high one, “Just kidding, I won’t kill you if you shut up. Hey! Hey tavern man, shut your twelve man band up!”

The large man behind the bar rolls his eyes and continues to serve drinks. Wade scowls at the disregard. Obviously it had been too long since the last time he came to Saint Margeret’s. 

A crossbow bolt is lodged in a young man’s throat so quickly, he continues to play his harp for a few notes before strumming a final tune. The bar doesn’t fall silent, Deadpool never expected it to, but it’s a hell of a lot quieter. The other bards miss a beat at the corpse, then fall silent when they see him notching another arrow. The body has already been stripped bare and it’s pulled out the door to be sold, fucked, or dumped.

He slips off his carved mask to the displeasure of those around him and sips at a half finished drink. Neither serving wenches nor whores come near him, although here there’s not much difference between the two.

Wade is patient as he waits for the innkeep to finish orders before signaling him over.

“A job. Got anything?” Wade says close to his ear. The pot-bellied man’s grimace is not a good sign, so Wade compromises, “Hell, I could take a rumor at this point.”

The innkeep twists his head about, spits into a bucket, then opens his mouth to speak. Before he can, a bandit thug and his party are laughing uproariously at some inane story. The thug moves to imitate a crippled woman passing their road and knocks into Wade’s chair in the process. It’s a crowded place, no need to get angry, so Wade just gives him a sidelong glance to tell him off. It would’ve been done with had the oaf not glimpsed Wade’s face and saw fit to comment.

“The fuck you looking at? Go back to the warrens, leper,” he ends it with a spit aimed at Wade’s feet.

“Ergh, I have to mop these floors!” a serving woman complains.

At the same time, Wade crushes the tankard he’s holding, the wood splintering in his hand, and slams his open palm into the thugs face. Barstools hit the ground as several people back away from the fight at once. The man goes down in a spray of blood, clutching at his face. Wade steps over him, moving to the bartender.

“Now. Jobs? Rumors?” Wade looks back around as the man keeps screaming on the floor, “Can you shut up, please? I’m trying to have a conversation.”

While he’s turned he takes a glimpse around the room to see who’s fingering their weapons and who’s calm. There are a notable number of patrons that are watching the spectacle with blank or amused faces so Wade puts his focus back on the innkeep.

He pulls his mask from its place on his hip as the innkeep stammers. He must be new in this part of town. An experienced innkeep in this district would’ve been the most calm of them all, if not already dishing out orders to clean up the mess. Wade fits the chipped wooden mask into place around his cowl and leather fittings. The red paint is fresh, since he used his last bounty’s blood to put on a new coat. The large coal black circles are bit more faded, appearing gray in the sunlight. 

“A town!” the innkeeper blurts out once the mask is in place, “Far away from here on the edge of the Broken Mountains there’s a farming town that’s been plagued by an endless winter!”

The man is talking faster and faster, his eyes flitting to the crowd now carelessly picking at the body on the ground. Wade rolls his shoulders in annoyance, “How the hell am I supposed to fight their weather?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! But there’s a thousand gold reward and they say a terrible demoness living in the mountains has cursed them and lures men to their deaths! Just please, I need to get this guy to an apothecary, at least.” The innkeep grows enough balls to move past Wade, starting to haul the broken man up.

“The Broken Mountains, eh?” Wade stretches his arms, snagging another drink as he walks, “It’s been as humid as the devil’s ass crack here since May. I could do with some cold. And hey, maybe I’ll bring some heat with me and thaw the bitch out.”

He says this to no one in particular. The innkeeper is busy trying to haul the giant thug to the apothecary while his customers watch in morbid fascination. Someone must have cut his throat for shits and giggles while Wade was dealing with the innkeeper because there’s blood streaming down the guy’s neck. Wade walks past, balancing the empty tankard on both men. Before the door closes he hears the same wench complain of the state of the floors, and the music starts up again.

* * *

The clouds couldn’t be seen through the flurry of snow. He’s tired of the same blank sky staring back at him. Peter is sure that if got high enough he could reach above the clouds and see the sun. He hadn’t felt warmth on his skin in months. Dark blue veins contrast sharply with his white, translucent skin.

Peter can still remember when he had freckles along his shoulders and down his arms. His Aunt would tell him that he got it from his father, since her side of the family had never tanned that way. The thought of Aunt May in the cold dark ground overcame him suddenly. A mountain of grief presses down on his chest, and he collapses on the icy floor. He wants to howl his grief to the world, and just as he thinks it the wind whips past furiously, echoing down the mountain range. 

He should make more of an effort to control his emotions, he knows this. He thinks it every morning and every night, but it never does any good. The snowstorms still build up into layers so deep they take out numerous people before they can even reach Peter.

Those are the easier ones. The people who die outside of his walls, blinded and numb. He hates seeing their corpses below, but he hates dumping the ones who make it to his castle even more. Hauling the bodies down as far as he dares takes the whole day, not because of the trip, but because he spends most of the day crying or screaming until he’s as empty as the corpses outside. He doesn’t want to hurt the townspeople below, or their heroes, but the cold is merciless. It takes and takes and takes any warmth until there’s nothing but a husk. Peter imagines that’s what he must be by now. Truly the demon of the Broken Mountains. 

Peter picks himself up from the floor. With so many hours of nothing distract him, he’d let his hair grow out just for something to do. At his vanity a multitude of combs made of ice lay cluttered around him. Each one more intricate than the last. It’s simply another thing to do beside braid his hair and move dead bodies.

Still, he sends any bodies he can back for the families to bury their dead, and a week later he gets another soft summer boy looking to slay him. Or her. It depended on where they came. Some come expecting a magic spell, some expect the ghost of a widow, but the widely accepted story is that he’s a lustful temptress, calling men to their graves.  _ If only their men would stop coming to me… _

The wind picks up again, cracking shards of ice off the outer walls and slamming against the only door in his fortress. Peter rubs his temples at the noise, trying to calm the eternal storm for some peace and quiet. Brushing out his hair always helps, so he untangles the braid he made last night and begins at his ends.

For several minutes he combs, working his way up from past his shoulders to his scalp. The rhythmic strokes of the comb’s fingers soothe him, but still the door keeps hitting against the wind. He untangles a lock of hair from his roots and there’s a loud  _ BANG _ from downstairs. Peter grits his teeth and finishes another lock, beginning to sort out strands for a french braid. 

The door, being made of ice, makes a cracking sound and continues to fuck itself into the door frame. Peter has to be calm. He grabs three pieces at his hairline. There’s a crackling sound and the door falls silent for a minute. The braid is halfway across his head when there’s a loud crash that echoes all the way through Peter’s fortress.

“ _ Ffff…”  _ Peter grips his hair so hard some strands break off when he releases, letting the half made braid slide down his head. He has to be calm.

He stands up sharply, knocking the vanity stool down, and strides to the bedroom archway, looking down into the first floor of the tower. The front doors, made of crystalline ice and glossy enough to barely see through, are laying on the ground, the right panel with a large spider webbed crack in its middle.

“What the actual fu-” No, he’s calm, it’s fine. The advantage of living in a palace of ice is that anything can be restored or melded together as easily as it breaks.

He pulls up his silk palla against the oncoming wind and strides down the stairs. Oddly, as he gets closer, Peter can tell that the wind has calmed since he was at his window. Frowning, he easily lifts the giant slab of ice, letting the cracks heal over as he skates his other hand over it.

“Well, hot damn, that’s some muscle!”

Peter drops the door quickly, another crack appearing when it hits the ground, and whirls around. In the doorway is a man in red cloth. A leather and fur coat is wrapped around his broad shoulders, making him appear twice the size of Peter in width. His mask is a terrifying visage, only the whites of his eyes are visible through the shadowed eyeholes. 

Foot sliding back, Peter drops lower into a fighting stance, or what he’s copied from the people who’ve challenged him. The mask raises and Peter gets the odd impression that the man is lifting an eyebrow at him. His confidence wavers as the man continues to wait at the door, staring blankly at him.

He lifts a hand suddenly and Peter takes a step back, on guard for a weapon appearing. Instead the man waves his finger around at the interior of the fortress.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

Peter can hear both their breaths in the calm winter air. And isn’t that just the most ironic part of his life? When fighting, when fleeing, Peter is calm as a snowflake landing gently to the ground. It’s when he’s stuck in his chamber with nothing but combs for company that the storm comes. He keeps his stance, sliding a few feet to the side for easier access to the stairs. He’s met all manner of fighters, some magic users and tricksters as well, so he won’t be unmanned by some cheap trick.

“What business have you here? This is my fortress and my home! I warn you now, I will not let you take me without a fight!” 

It’s his typical speech. He actually got most of it from an old book he’d read as a child. Some king or other against a giant, three headed hydra come to steal away his wealthy kingdom. Peter liked to imagine himself the king, even if the words felt hollow.

The man now quirked his head, shifting in place. Peter can see a large bag sitting next to him now, likely filled with all manner of weapons to cut him down. He didn’t want to imagine the blood, the mess, that would likely be made by the end of this. It would either be him cleaning it up, or the man. Or perhaps he would bring Peter’s body down to parade amongst the village. Peter bites the inside of his cheek, trying to stifle a whine as hot blood fills his mouth. He would be dead, it wouldn’t matter. It would just be a body. Just a body, not a person. Not him.

“Are you okay?” the man adjusts his neck cover, and Peter catches a glimpse of twisted red skin, “You’re starting to hyperventilate, I think. Also, it’s really cold out here, seriously I’m freezing my balls off, so can I pretty please come in? With a cherry on top?”

“I…” Peter starts without knowing what else to say. He seems oddly genuine, and Peter is reminded of the days when his winter hadn’t reaches past the village borders. Some would come up here to leave him gifts or tokens to beg for a peaceful winter. 

“No need to worry, if you’re not up for it today I can leave behind my little presents for you to explore in the meantime. Actually, I should ask your preference… hmm, this may be harder than I thought if you’re not into men. Nonetheless,” he heaves the bag off the ground and thrusts it toward Peter, “Presents! Who doesn’t love presents?”

Yes; books, and coins, and clothes. Until he couldn’t halt the growing area of his powers and then it was boys and girls. Boys tied up with their wrists cut, tossed onto his doorstep weeping for their parents who’d given them away, willingly or not. Girls dolled up in white dresses, trying to hold back tears but whimpering as they were lifted onto a stake, torches dancing around them in a menacing circle. Lamb after lamb led to the slaughter, all for the end result of more hatred toward Peter for taking their sons and daughters away. As if he had asked for their sacrifices. 

It didn’t matter to them that he had little control over how far his freezing storms ranged. When the heroes came they cried out the names of their children and Peter hated that he could remember every one of them. 

Peter shivers, the cold suddenly getting to him as his breath comes out in harsh puffs of frost. Blacks spots take up his vision, but he has to shake them off because the man is stepping inside his fortress. The soles of his heavy fur boots squeak on the ice. They look twice the size of Peter’s own feet, and he wonders for the hundredth time if he could actually take on the person in front of him. All the heroes before had fallen to his cold the second they touched him, the bigger ones just took longer. Peter braces himself when the man reaches out.

A soft touch on his shoulder and Peter blinks away the black spots to see that the man is rubbing his thumb in a circle. Peter wants to hit himself. He’s panicking and clawing for breath all while this man has moved several paces. 

“You really don’t look okay. Is there somewhere to sit down? I’m worried you might fall over.”

Peter shakes his head, hating the concern staining this man’s voice. He yanks the hand off his shoulder before it can reach bare skin and backs up to the stairs. A gust sends snow flurries through the gaping hole where his door once stood and Peter has had enough with false niceties.

“You want to play pretend, ser? Fine, come and follow me then. I’ll invite you into my bedroom and thank you personally for each one of your gifts. Would you like that?” Peter isn’t stupid. He’s knows that everyone thinks him a woman. It’s hard to ignore when he has half a dozen so called heros barging in, calling him a temptress. The crude remarks don’t bother him, only the dismissal of his strength. Those were always the quickest to die, so Peter continues to keep his hood low.

“Ser? I’m not a ser, no where close to one. Knights all have sticks up their asses, and not the good kind of stick either. No, I’m a  _ mercenary. _ ” His masks wiggles and he puffs his chest out as if anything he said was good.

Mercenaries are far, far worse. Knights die in the blizzard with their shiny mail freezing them from the inside. Knights push his door open and call out for his death. They’re rarely merciful, but they are loud and clumsy on ice.

Peter’s mouth twists into something of a snarl as he hisses out, “Do you expect me to be impressed? That I would accept my death knowing that you only wanted that bag of coin? There is no trick to this! My winter will die with me, and nothing will convince those  _ people, _ ” Peter heaves in a breath, fighting the sudden sting of tears, “to hand it over until you come down the mountain without a single snowflake on your furs.”

The man reaches his hand out, swaying forward as if drunk. “Oh,  _ sweet thing, _ ” he breathes the words out like a prayer. It makes Peter stumble further up the steps, confounded by his gentle demeanor, “There’s no trick to this. That’s right, that’s right! I want the money, that’s why I came. No more special than a carpenter being called to make another cabin. But you really think that I’m here to spill more blood?” His mask observes the stains decorating his stola.

“Of-of course! You confessed that you’re here for the money. And the only way to do that is to kill me!” The words bounce around the cavernous room as Peter slowly takes each stairstep backward. The man follows at the same pace.

“No, no! I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to defeat you,” He lifts his hands in a grand gesture, stopping now to wait for Peter.

It’s been minutes now, and they’re no different than when this man first entered. Peter is still confused and disarmed, the man still playful and advancing. Leaning down, Peter is forced to put his hands on his knees. There, in his chest, a bubble fills his lungs, threatening to burst forth from his mouth. He sees a drop of blood land near his foot and it’s quickly diluted by the watery ice. Jerking his head up, Peter stares at the open front door. It’s blue on blue. Peter can see the sky and not snow and snow and snow. The laugh finally breaks free from his chest, a harsh, almost painful sounding thing. He shivers and pulls his hand away from the rail, his hand dripping with water. 

Peter strokes a thumb through his palm, trying to feel every little poke of ice as it crystalizes. The pain grounds him just enough for him to take a deep breath and relax. There’s a tension in between his brows, making them twitch, but his voice is even when he asks, “What’s your name, mercenary?”

The man had been blessedly silent during Peter’s epiphany, but not unmoving. He could reach out an arm and grasp Peter by the shoulders. He does reach out to grasp Peter’s silks, rubbing the texture in between his thumb and fingers. Quorking his head up in a painful looking position he seems to radiate smug amusement.

“My name is Deadpool. Now, ask me again, sweet thing, so you know what to scream.” Deadpool seems unconcerned by Peter’s sudden stiffness, and waits patiently as he parses out the sentence as a euphemism rather than a threat, then coos at Peter’s blush. “Look at you, lovely. Has no one ever come in here and told you how gorgeous you look in the cold?”

“N-no. They’ve called me a seductress plenty of times… but never gladly so.”

“ _ Oh,  _ well that’s just not right. None of these knights treat you honorably? You’ve seduced me, I’ll give you that. I’m properly at your mercy. If only this sweet thing would demand that I enter it’s chambers and I would gladly submit.”

Peter’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. He didn’t know why he feels so full of stinging heat when this man speaks to him. It’s going to end, Peter realizes, once Deadpool finds out he’s a man. He’s not expecting the rush of disappointment, and suddenly wants it to be over.

“Come, now. Come to my boudoir.” He quickly moves up the rest of the steps, unafraid of the slick ice.

Striding into his room, Peter doesn’t stop moving. He stands in front of his window for only a second, then makes a circle around his bed, and back again to his vanity. Deadpool slowly stops before the archway, his bag in hand. It’s filled with many things, Peter can only guess from the outlines and he pauses nervously in his pacing to try and parse out what’s about to happen. Was it all truly a trick? A way to lead him somewhere closed in so that he can pull his weapons out and trap him? Would he force himself on Peter? Be too disgusted by his thin, muscular body to go through with it? Or would Peter’s lies of omission only make him angry, fueling his cruelty? Peter feels faint again, and locks his knees to prevent him from wobbling in place.

“Ask me again,” His voice is somehow deeper. He must read Peter’s confusion in his mouth because he clarifies, “My name. Ask me for it again.”

Blinking rapidly, Peter takes a moment to center himself, let go of some of the tension making him dizzy and asks, “What’s your name, Deadpool?”

He shuffles his hands around, appearing almost nervous. Then, gently, he lifts the mask. It’s position on top of his head makes it too shadowy to fully see above the bridge of his nose, but what Peter can see is a mess. So many scars litter his face that they cross over each other and form odd shapes. Some parts around his chin and lips don’t have any more skin to spare so its stretched painfully across his musculature. There’s clean white teeth that stand in contrast to the irritated skin, pulled into something of a snarl from one angle and smirk from another. Above all else Peter is reminded of the mountains he calls home.

When it was just Peter on a lonely patch of snow in the middle of craggy rock, he’d been so alone. The mountain made it bearable, revealing springs and hidden signs of life all over its face. Peter supposes that Deadpool wants him to be fearful, or expects him to be. For the first time since he walked in here, Peter is no longer scared of him.

“Your name?” Peter lifts an eyebrow, though he knows it’s not visible.

“Wade… and you?”

Peter bites his lip, bowing his head until he can’t see anything but the top of his hood and the floor. He motions for Wade to come inside and gently slips the palla off his shoulders when he hears footsteps. Too busy looking around the room, Wade starts talking before Peter can warn him.

“Oh, it’s actually kind of warm in here! Hey, aren’t you just the sexiest thing that ever did walk on ice,” He smiles warmly at Peter, setting his bag down by the bed to disrobe.

“I…” Peter begins, confused again by the lack of reaction,. He clears his throat, “I’m sorry, but did you know I was a man this whole time?”

Wade pops out from under the inner cloak he’s pulling off, “Hn? Oh, no, they said you were a girl, excuse me,  _ woman.  _ I didn’t have any reason to doubt them. Seems like for the amount of people who’ve visited you they’d be the experts.”

“And you aren’t bothered by that?” Peter steps a little closer.

“Not at all, I swing both ways. Any ways, actually. Surprised me, sure, but not a bad surprise. I’ll have to rework my plan a bit but so long as we do a bit more prep, you’ll be fine.”

Stinging with sudden betrayal, Peter charges forward and grabs the jerkin Wade had been removing, “Asshole!” Peter grips closer to where its stuck on his arm, hoping the ice will reach him sooner, “I fucking knew it!”

“Woah, chill out!” Wade suddenly snorts, “Ha, I said chill out to a winter demon thingy. Uh, I meant that in the best way possible.”

“ _ You _ are trying to kill me! Why would I possibly calm down? So that you can chop my head off easier?” Peter tugs on the jerkin, shaking Wade around violently, “I took a chance and invited you up here against my own judgement. I should’ve known… I should’ve…” Peter trails off with a gasp.

He doesn’t know why he’s crying. It seems so silly compared to all the numerous people who’ve tried to kill him before. This hurts worse than the first attempt on his life, and Peter can’t figure out why his ice still hasn’t reacted to this man’s threats.

A gentle pressure swipes across his cheek, thumbing away his tears. Wade’s leather glove is surprisingly soft against Peter’s skin, tempting him into leaning into the touch. He clenches his jaw to keep his lip from quivering, but doesn’t move away. He’s thought a lot about how he might die, and Peter figures being held for the first time in a decade might be the best solution. He tips his head back, swallowing harshly as he still fights for an even breath, and exposes his throat.

There’s a cool touch under his jaw, and Peter shivers. It would take only a second for Wade to slice through and end his suffering. The touch moves farther down, making him shiver again, then once more he chooses a different spot. There’s a little noise, something wet, and Peter wonders if Wade’s knife is so sharp that he’s bleeding before the pain.

Tilting his head to the side Peter carefully opens his eyes. He can see the top of Wade’s head and is confused for only a second. The cool touch then warms suddenly as Wade takes a bit of skin in his mouth and sucks. The moan comes out of Peter unabbiden and he’s shivering again and again at the unfamiliar sensation.

Wade releases Peter’s throat from his lips and speaks into the curve of his neck, “What monster could even think of ending you?” Then softer he says, “You taste so good.”

Peter bites the inside of his mouth to prevent a cry from escaping, but new tears drip down regardless.

“What’s wrong? Don’t cry, baby boy,” he hushes Peter, sliding a hand into his hair and massaging.

The sensation relaxes Peter so quickly it surprises both of them. He drops his head into Wade’s shoulder and lets out a whimper, painfully hard with no memory of how he got to this point. It’s intoxicating, the way Wade continues to rock him. Peter isn’t sure if he’s falling asleep or about to come, but it feels dangerously like both. He takes Wade’s lips in his even knowing he could still die right now. There could be a knife at Wade’s belt ready to slash his throat at the last moment. He could be right about the bag and have Wade open it only to reveal devices, each crueler than the last. He should care more considering how many attempts on his life have been made.

Wade breaks off from the kiss. “You know, I never got your name. Baby boy and sweet thing work just fine, but I want to know what to scream.”

“Peter,” he answers with a blush.

“You look gorgeous in red, Pete.” Wade leans back down for a drawn out kiss, but quickly stops to ask, “You do have a bed, right?”

“Well I don’t sleep on the floor.” Grumbling, Peter tries to pull Wade back in and suddenly finds himself looking over a bald head. “What? What are you…?”

“So many things, baby boy. I’m going to do so many things,” Wade squeezes a handful of Peter’s butt, ignoring his protests, and carries him to fur covered bed, slowly placing him down. Peter is grateful for his gentleness, considering it’s a solid block of ice. Cold has never bothered him, the pelts are for comfort. But he also never thought he would have another person with him in bed.

“It doesn’t bother you?” Peter says as he makes himself comfortable in a kneeling position. At Wade’s looks of confusion, he amends, “The cold, the ice, the general lack of warmth.”

Sinking into the pelts beside him, Wade stretches out then props himself up on his elbow. “Not really. If anything it feels good on my skin once I’m out of the wind.”

Peter flicks his eyes up and down Wade’s form, trying to picture how his skin looks around every part of his body. Peter strokes up his bicep and tugs at the half opened jerkin. With a soft smile Wade sits up to undress himself and while he does Peter decides to help him out of his mask and hood. Despite them both being on their knees Wade is a whole head taller than him. Peter reaches up slowly, choosing the ignore the little flinch from him and slides the fabric and wood off together. He gives the face of the mask a lingering touch, Wade letting out a little gasp of pleasure as he does, before placing it carefully to the ground. 

Only in his under shirt and trousers now, Wade tosses the jerkin away and slides his hands up Peter’s sides. The ticklish sensation is surprisingly erotic and Peter grips Wade’s shoulders both to stabilize himself and to tug away the undershirt. It’s dyed a brilliant red, the same as his hood, and loose fitting. 

Wade’s fingers climb up his chest and grasp each pec in one hand. With a single squeeze he makes Peter tremble.

“Oh…” 

“You say something, baby boy?” He keeps rubbing circles until Peter’s bent backward with the force and Wade is hovering over his throat. He begins to attack that, too.

“I didn’t realize,” he stops to slam his hands underneath him, giving up control of Wade to unfold his legs and roll back his shoulders. The fabric round his shoulders slips off some and Wade goes to it like a hound on a bone. “I didn’t realize it felt that  _ good. _ It’s only my chest but, ah! There must be some reason…”

“No need for a reason,” Wade growls into Peter’s shoulder, “Just feel it.”

Changing his angle so that he’s lifting and massaging, Wade pulls back and looks toward his bag. Wade catches his eye and licks at his own lips, then Peter’s. Nodding in final submission, Peter lets Wade untangle from the bed and go to his mysterious tools. All the while Peter sinks into his bed furs and feels the twist of his pounding heart. Wade is back without fanfare, already holding a few items. The bag rests innocently next to Wade’s mask, open at the brim and gives Peter an unobstructed view of what’s inside. 

Colors. Lots and lots of colors and glass, and something white and iridescent. Some are obvious, what with their shape, but others are not so clear to Peter. He can even see little chains and toothed clamps. He’s starting to hate the anxiety that rises up again, but it’s not all that strong this time. He breathes through it and focuses back on Wade, who’s patiently waiting on him. In his hands is a small ceramic jug, corked at the top and held by hemp around the neck. He also holds a small towel and, most embarrassingly of all, a wooden shaft, rounded and smooth all around.

“I don’t know if that’s possible.” It’s not much bigger than his own manhood, but intimidating nonetheless.

Wade only laughs at him, crow’s feet appearing at his eyes as he closes them, and lays down the items next to Peter’s shoulder. “It will be. Later though, after some preparation.”

Not trusting the stability of his voice, Peter nods and reclines on his pillow, which is actually a bundle of the cleanest clothes he could scavenge tucked under the furs. His chest shakes with each breath, but he is taken aback by his own determination. He had not even been thinking of the possibility of a cure, only wanting selfishly for some brief reprieve. The pleasure that had curled in his belly at Wade’s touch still lingers and he has to fight to keep from covering the tent in his robe. There’s no point when the man above him is looking so eagerly at it with his own breeches straining. 

Palming at his hips first, Wade bunches the stola’s skirt in his fist, collecting more until it’s pooling around Peter’s waist. Just when Peter’s ready for him to begin touching his bare skin, instead he gently untangles the palla until it lays flat, running past his fingertips. When he stretches out they feel like strangely silky wings. He strokes the ends between his thumb and forefinger to admire the slippery texture and he’s only mildly surprised when Wade waits for him again. When he’s fully relaxed, almost sleepy, he spreads himself out with a hum of delight. It’s been so long since he’s been comfortable enough to let go of his emotions.

When Wade’s hands slip under the cloth and back to his chest, Peter gasps aloud, throwing his head back in accession. And Wade takes. He grips harder, digging his fingertips into Peter’s flesh and forcing it to yield. Peter mimicks the treatment on his palla, unable to keep still under the ministrations. With bare flesh each touch is far more intense and when Wade focuses on his nipples it’s like an electric shock. 

Fully erect now and panting, Peter lifts himself up and tugs at his own clothing. His movements are clumsy but Wade helps him until the bloodstained blue is over his head and on the floor. The furs are strangely warm on his skin and it makes him wriggle around in discomfort. There’s an unexpected sting on his left ass cheek before Peter registers the sound of the slap. There’s no pain, but he’s chastised nonetheless. 

Feeling as if he hasn’t been truly observing his surrounding for several minutes now, Peter focuses on Wade’s abdomen as he slips his pants down enough to pull his cock out. It’s bigger than the wooden shaft and makes Peter blush. 

But what steals his breath is the absolutely devilish grin staring down at him. He’s going to get eaten, devoured, by this man and he’s going to be hard as ice when it happens. Still kneeling, Wade slips both hands under Peter’s butt and lifts him onto his knees. He strokes up his legs, lifting them little by little until Peter’s ankles are on his shoulders. Cool air hits his opening and he tenses up briefly, but forces himself to give in. If he’s going to go out, he’s going to go out having the best sex of his life. The only sex actually, but it’s not as if he has something to compare it to.

Wade reaches for the jug first. He pulls the cork and pours glistening, yellow oil into his waiting palm. A line of it clings to the spout as Wade seals the jar back up and it dribbles down the pottery in a thinning line, becoming so light it looks like a spider’s web when it connects with Wade’s thigh.

“I haven’t seen a spider in forever,” Peter confesses suddenly, “I want to see the sun again, and grass. I want to feel warm.”

A tentative touch to his ass makes Peter gasp. The touch is like a branding on Peter’s pale skin. He scoots farther up Wade’s legs to invite him closer.

“Do you only feel cold here?” Wade keeps eye contact as he asks, even as his blunt, calloused fingers are rubbing oil on Peter’s entrance.

“I don’t feel cold. Nor do I feel warmth. It’s no different as when you find that if you eat broth from the pot it burns you less and less with each bite. Maybe it’s because you’re so hungry, you have no choice to eat.  _ Ah…” _

“Okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay. It’s… it’s an odd sensation.”

Only the tip of Wade’s finger is dipping inside of him but the intrusion is too unfamiliar to be comfortable. Wade doesn’t stop his movements, dipping in a little more each time and stretching the skin around Peter’s balls with his thumb. 

“It’s going to be uncomfortable the first time. Relax your muscles and tell me if you need to stop. I’m going to go slow at first but with the toy, well, we’re going to have more fun with that. Deep breathes, baby boy.”

Peter nods, feeling useless and dramatic as he tries to curb the instinct to clench around the digit now halfway inside him. However, the farther Wade gets the more Peter accepts it, the sensation becoming strangely erotic. When Wade’s knuckles touch his rim, he’s not only breathing deeply but his eyes seem unable to fully open. 

The oil smells good, and Wade smells good. And even though he’s feeling a bit useless just laying on the other man, the bare cock that peeks into Peter’s tilted, fuzzy view is beaded with precum. It makes him hope that Wade is at least not too fed up with his inexperience.

There’s a nudge at his entrance, the pressure tight against his rim. With a moan Peter spreads his hips wider and accepts the extra pressure.

“Oh Lady of Death have mercy on me now,” Peter hears a whispered exclamation and then a grunt.

“Wade?” He questions sleepily.

“I’m here. I’m right here. Fuck me above and below,  _ Peter! _ ”

The exclamation lifts some of his drowsiness and he sits up to look at Wade. He’s got two fingers and a thumb sitting outside of Peter and his face is slack with something feverish. The furs no longer itch, but Peter wants to squirm anyway. Wade’s stare is dreadfully intense even more so when he stares down at the hand between Peter’s legs. “Don’t stare at me there! It’s…” He blushes at his own childish thoughts before blurting out, “It’s private.”   
  


_ “It’s mine.” _

Peter’s chest shakes on the next inhale. Arousal overcomes him so suddenly it forces him onto his back and wraps around his cock. And now that Wade has given him this new sensation, it sends a flood of desire to his opening as well. Wade is pleased with his response, thrusting his fingers farther along their path and circling around another new spot.

“I thought you would need some gentling before all this. I didn’t want to go too fast,” Wade explains as he leans forward and then down, picking something up from the floor. His other hand supports Peter long enough for Wade’s discarded cloak to be bunched underneath Peter’s hips. Then he leans forward on his fours, or threes in this case. “Good boy keeping your feet there. So flexible. It doesn’t hurt, does it? No?” He continues curling his fingers into something that’s richochetting pleasure against Peter’s walls, “Well, you certainly needed convincing, but I didn’t expect this. It’s a good surprise of course, but no less shocking. Do you want to know what makes me a good mercenary, Peter?”

Peter does not. He wants Wade to thrust harder and keep touching that spot and why does that feel like lightening up his spine?

Wade leans closer to his neck. “What makes me the best at my work is how I know when to be gentle. And I know when to be rough. And I thought, when I first met you, my sweet, icy thing, that you needed it gentle. But I was wrong, so wrong. Can you forgive me, Peter? Can you ever even think to forgive me?”

“Yes! Yes!” Peter is hearing Wade, hearing all the nonsense and exposition coming out of his mouth, but nothing is registering except the press of Wade’s fingers and the sight of his own cock moving lewdly. He hadn’t felt the touch of another person in years. It’s making him ache something fierce, the desperation building into something painful and twisted.

Wade presses down, his digits flat but angled right into that spot, and stops moving. At Peter’s frantic whine he makes a sympathetic noise, “I know, I know it hurts you poor thing. I’m going to make it better, baby boy. Let me show you…”

The oil jug is back in his hand. Wade leans back, although his hips stay up against the back of Peter’s thighs. Biting around the cork, he pulls it off with a swift yank of his head and spits it out into the middle of the room. He reaches down and places the head of the bottle right on his fingers, then tips the bottom up. Peter hears the muted noise of the oil as it glugs, but it takes a few seconds to feel the dripping wet solution filling him up. 

It spills out his insides in a messy puddle onto the coat, but if it’s bothersome to Wade, he doesn’t show it. The ceramic pot is set down and replaced by something Peter had completely forgotten about.

“You don’t know how bad I want to flip you over and end this right now,” Wade pants out. Peter is matching his breaths which makes him wonder how he’s even able to speak. Peter is barely gasping in enough air to make noise. He tries to curb a whine when Wade’s fingers slip out. “But I’m going to be nice and let you warm up, okay?”

Groaning in response, Peter anxiously stretches out his back as he stares at the carved shaft. It’s shiny with wax so he’s not worried about splinters, but it’s intimidating nonetheless. One end is shaped into a well defined, uncut cockhead which Wade is rubbing on his palm in circles. 

“I don’t.” He swallows nervously, “I don’t know how well I can handle that.”

He tries to speak as diplomatically as possible, as if the vague terms will prevent humiliation from burning into his mind. Wade smiles at him as his oil slick hand twists down the shaft in steady motions.

“Why can’t you do that to me?” Peter blurts out.

“Are you feeling jealous? Don’t worry, you’re going to get all the attention you need. This feels so much better than pulling on yourself.”

Peter watches Wade bring the shaft down between his legs warily. There’s no possible way a blunt piece of wood will feel better than Wade’s deft fingers. He misses them so intensely it makes him dizzy to think that he must have only been in Wade’s grasp for minutes. 

He directs Peter into a new position carefully, one arm moving Peter’s legs to untuck and wrap around his hips and scooting back to put space between them. The head sits at his hole gently, pushing in at a steady pace. It feels like it will never enter him with how tightly his body resists it. But Wade is patient and bears down until its easier to open up to the intrusion than reject it. The tip slides past his rim and the solid weight is reaching into him. When Peter’s rim pops past the head he gasps loudly. It’s unyielding in a way flesh could never be, and so heavy on his insides. Fissures of pleasure dance along his groin and up to his chest. 

Wade seems to have reached the end of the shaft, his fingertips kissing the place they’d just left, he rotates it slightly and pulls it out. And it’s better, far better, than fingers or pushing it in, or anything else Peter has ever felt.

“Oh, oh,” his voice dies off as his whole body tenses up,  _ “Wade!” _

“Yes,” he whispers into Peter’s skin, “Yes, yes, yes.”

He pushes the shaft into Peter again and Peter moans and thinks that this is far better than fingers, or pulling out, or anything else he’d ever felt. Again Wade rotates the shaft as he does so and again when he pulls it out. Each time Peter is sure he’s going to come, or will on the next pass, but it’s never quite enough. 

With his arm moving in a steady rhythm Wade turns his attention into nibbling on any piece of Peter he deems it necessary to. On each of the ribs protruding out and all across Peter’s belly he talks to him, his lips barely touching. He stops speaking only to kiss, lick, or bite at random spots. Peter looks out the window in a daze as his body twitches involuntarily under the ministrations. The night sky is barely visible, but it’s there in between swaths of blinding white. They must be clouds, but Peter can’t make out their shapes or shadows.

A few times Peter can hear what Wade is saying, even then most of it sounds like pure nonsense.

“Take you inside me… Fill me up. How cold would you be? Made of ice. Let me make it snow… So warm inside. Won’t have frostbite anymore… Lick every inch…”

“Wade, please.” he gets only a hum in response. “Please, let me. Just do it! Or,  _ fuck, _ ah! End it, please. I can’t take much more of this.

Wade sighs as he releases Peter’s collarbone from his treacherous mouth, “Just a little longer, baby boy. Give me another minute I’m almost there.”

And Peter tries to wait. He really does, but his whole body is warm now, his brain is mush, and the end of his sanity is right there if only Wade would toss him over it. He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth against the pressure of another thrust. It forces an exhale from him as does the next. Endless, it seems. Endless as his winter.

“There we go. Lady Death, avert your eyes, he’s something heavenly dropped on this earth. Let go, sweet thing. Right there.”

Peter peers at him through half lidded eyes, wondering what he means, but quickly discards the thought. Wade is warm and heavy as he lies closer now. The shaft pulls out as it has done so numerous times before, Peter expects its movement back in, but instead the head catches on his rim and then parts from him with a sudden chill. 

He’s hollowed out on the inside. Wade had been drilling a hole inside him and now Peter is empty. It’s unbearable, causing tears to form without warning. He refuses to let them fall, although he briefly questions why he doesn’t. He’s whimpering already, Wade’s hand on his cheek is only a candle flame next to the core of ice taking residence in his chest. 

“Shhhh, shh, shh. Peter, do you feel me right there?”

“Hnngh,” Peter tosses his head back and forth, confused at what Wade is talking about.

“Here, lovely,” Wade grips the inside of Peter’s thigh then slides his hand up to the joint of his hip, bringing his attention to the fact that Wade’s cock is waiting patiently at his entrance. “Is this okay?”

“W-warm,” he manages to moan out, “the fur, it’s sticking.”

Wade nods as if he’s predicted this all along. Reverently, he takes Peter’s left leg and pushes it into a similar position it was in before, bent up again. But Wade tucks it tightly against to his chest and then pushes at his shoulders until he’s laying on his right side. Peter realizes the second the cool air hits him that he’s sweating heavily along his back. It sends a shiver through him, instantly chilling him, especially with the window to his back. He can’t summon much disgust with the sweat when he’s panting and drooling like a hound, and neither does Wade appear to lose any arousal. 

His curled leg is left loose, although as Wade shifts closer to his bottom again, he holds it up so as to expose Peter.

“Let me in,  _ temptress, _ ” he purrs along Peter’s rib, “Let me make you forget  _ everything. _ ”

Something is revitalized inside of Peter. Some clawing, desperate creature that Wade had tamed rises up again. It’s just as heavy and painful as when he saw a mercenary at his door here to kill him, but it’s no longer thrashing about. It gives Peter the courage to lift his head and meet Wade’s eyes as he says, “Come in inside. Now, Wade, I want you.”

Wade does so with fervor. His eyes are almost scarily wide as he takes in Peter and then lets out a noise that’s a mix between a howl and a groan of pain as his member finally sinks in, forcing himself deeper until they’re pressed up against one another, but he does not stop. Wade’s hips move frantically as he moans once then continues to rut in silence. 

He does look like nothing more than a dog, Peter suddenly thinks. He’s fierce in his pleasure, but it feels like an accident when he hits the stone inside of Peter on every stroke. 

Peter arches his spine and moans out a long line of filthy words as Wade pounds on his hips. There’s nothing but the odd mixture of energy and lethargy coursing through Peter right now to keep him awake. Tension is building in his groin, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to attend to his own cock. Wade is too busy thrusting his inside of Peter’s wet heat to help with it either, but he does continue to shout nonsense and encouragement.

“Hah, ah! That’s it Peter, baby boy, mine, mine, mine. Fuck, gorgeous. Keep going, so good. Do you feel like a whore yet? You certainly look like one. Drooling over a man’s cock inside of you.”

“Can’t… help… it,” Peter tries to defend as he begins to whine with each moan, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

“Never,” Wade growls before bending down and continuing on his quest to turn Peter red.

His peak hits him unawares, so deeply engrossed in the delight that Wade is spreading he never feels anything but the constant edge until he’s over it. He wraps his arm around the bent leg as his release soils the fur bedding along with his sweat.

“Wade! Fuck, Wade! Gods!”

Unrelenting, Wade croons happily at his words but continues to fill him. His insistent strokes jostle Peter and leave him shuddering in overstimulation. The pleasure of his insides is not as intense but after the draining orgasm, he’s completely spent. Each thrust now feels like a hand stroking his cock, bringing him a confusing mix of satisfaction and reluctance. He no longer wants to be in such intense pleasure but it’s being stoked all the same.

He must be complaining in some sort of manner because Wade quickly soothes him, “Just a few more. You’re doing so good, lovely. Look at you… just looking at you, almost!”

His next words become near incomprehensible, unless Wade speaks another language Peter’s not familiar with. And while Peter expects him to collapse the second he’s spent, he lifts himself and rolls over to curl up along Peter’s sore backside.

“God damn, baby boy,” he says not a minute after he’d gone still, “Your ass is the sweetest thing since bees made honey.”

Peter can’t help his snort of laughter. His body and his mind are pudding and currently the shape of the door frame is humorous. And he’s satisfied. Completely, wholly. He smiles as his eyes start to darken. Wade’s warmth is a comfort he thought he would never have but it’s there right behind him all the same. His cock, which has gotten half hard after his first completion in years, is hardly bothersome when everything else is right in the world. There’s nothing to do but sleep, and so he does.

* * *

The furs beneath him are clean despite the mess they made last night. They’re also empty. A shaky breath escapes him as he looks down at the pile of his discarded clothes. It’s back to the vanity. Back to braiding his hair in the mornings and dragging corpses into the afternoon. 

Peter wants to break out into tears, and he knows he can. The sob is sitting right behind his throat, but he refuses to take it. Instead he walks naked over to his vanity. A blur of brown is sitting on top of his blue though. Hurriedly wiping his tears, Peter flits over and grasps the warm folded cloak. It’s easily recognizable as Wade’s simply from the size. 

Peter lifts it up with a flourish, and two items fall out of the bundle. A green apple and a pouch of salted jerky. Rare commodities in a kingdom of snow. Heady desire hits him without warning. He should be cursing this man out, but instead he clutches the provision to his chest like a bouquet of flowers. The first bite of the tart fruit is overwhelming. He gasps and takes another. 

A gust of wind causes goose flesh to break out on his skin, although it’s nearly a breeze compared to the strong winds he normally gets. Wrapping the cloak about him, Peter pulls out his hair and combs it over his shoulder as he walks to the window, apple in hand. He nearly drops it down the mountain.

Green as the apple, green  _ grass _ , gray mountains with snow runoff trickling down, is all surrounding his castle of ice. And Peter realizes that Wade has done it. He’s defeated the Ice King.

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for the SpideyPool 2019 Bingo prompt "Ice King". It's based off of the comic Snow Queen and Snow Bound on Oglaf.com  
(NSFW links btw!)  
https://www.oglaf.com/snowqueen/  
https://www.oglaf.com/snowbound/


End file.
